66 at face painting, that is the fact. Why, what the deuce! you might daub in a red lion, or a milk-sign, well enough, with this brick-dusty arrangement; but as for a human face, cry your mercy, Matt. Here, my little man," giving the palette to the boy, scrape these colours off, and wipe it clean. Here, Matt, where are your colour pots; Lord help us, smudge pots I should swear; what an arcana! why, Matt,— what do you grind your pigments in the cart ruts with a waggon wheel?" "Yes, verily, and his vanity tints in a potter's mill,” said Ingoldsby, in the canting nasal twang of the conventicle, without altering a muscle of his visage. Walker, who was full of fun, turned his back, convulsed with suppressed laughter; what canting saint art thou, thought he. So taking a stool, and seating himself before the easel that held the sign, which was a pannel five feet and a half high, and four feet wide, he contrived to hide himself from the searching stare of the old frump, shaking his shoulders with his risibility, when collecting his countenance, with great effort, he began to advance, with his work on the head of St. Dunstan, prepared already for finishing, and dashed in the character with marvellous dexterity; "Lord! how like," said Matthew, looking on with rapture, as the painting proceeded; "there, now," said he, "a little more vermillion on this cheek, brother Walker, and a higher light on the forehead, that is the mark, and a little more breadth of dew-lap there, the old tapster has a most capacious double chin. Admirable! excellent, nothing can be more like; don't be sparing of colour, dash it on, never fear; when seen at a distance, it will be capital, every thing will find its place: Damme, this will sure enough, my masters. gravel old Prynne, But, how are we to manage his incomparable phiz,* for there is * Prynne used to write heroic verses. His elegant apparatus for the solicitation of the muses, says Dr. Gray, quoting Anthony Wood, was "when he studied, to draw on a long loose quilted cap, which came an inch over his eyes, seldom eating any dinner, he would every three hours or more be munching a roll of bread; and now and then refresh his exhausted spirits, with ale brought him by his servant. nothing like it in the shape and cut of humanity." "Hush, hist," whispered Matthew Barlowe, "that grave old divine, in the black cloak, and high crowned hat, has engaged to sit for the devil; we selected him from his resemblance to the old puritanical barrister." For his poetic talent, he is thus complimented by Cowley Without the Muses' leave to plant verse here. At this period, many who felt the inspirations of grace, were wont sometimes to woo the Graces: But their favors no more than those of the Muses, were gifts to bestow on puritanical lawyers, or preaching tinkers and cobblers. Hence, some wag wrote When each notch'd prentice might a poet prove, When sage George Withers, and grave lawyer Prynne 66 Why! what a Judas !" whispered Walker, What a betrayer, confound them, they would every man of them cut each other's throats, the jesuitical rascals. But, Matt, now you must manage his hypocritical phiz yourself; you may do it in black relief, for, by the Lord! I dare not trust myself with another look at him, I shall certainly laugh in his face. You know my infir-fir-firmity," beginning to shake his sides, "no Matt, I shall die, I am already choaking." "Well, laugh, and you will," said Barlowe; "I will have a dust with that old rogue of a bookseller, and then Bob you may affect to be laughing at him." Encouraged by this stratagem, Walker, having a licence for the exercise of his risible propensity, naturally enough felt no present disposition to laugh, and so peeping round, on one side of the panel, he addressed old square-toes, with, "I am afraid we shall wear out your patience, reverend sir; you have been seated there some long season me-thinks." "Proceed with thy carnal operation man; thou needest not to trouble thyself of me. Sitting is profitable for holy meditation," accompanying his reply with a groan. "Yes, and for hatching of mischief as they have it in my country," said old Walter Waller, in his spleen against the puritans, who had not put in a word for a long time. He had been slyly observing the operation of the workmen, and calculating by whispering questions, how long a king Charles would take to complete, the price of the panel and paints, and what might be its neat value, according to time and wages, preparatory to driving his bargain. "Thou art a bibliopolist, foolish old man, and resideth with that meek pattern of piety, thy sister Abigail-art thou not ?" inquired the pseudo Prynne, seemingly roused by his impertinence. "That I am a bookseller is not to be denied," returned Waller; but she whom thou mis-callest a pattern of piety, hath fleeced me by the dark connivance of those hungry wolves in sheeps' clothing, the independents; and as for her meekness, her tongue is as smooth as a farriers' file, and her fists as harmless as the heels of a skittish horse. I guess thou art |